Luke has it.
The boy’s been letting me know in no uncertain terms that he’s the boss of me and I should hop to. Whether it’s tap-dancing on my head to get me up to serve his every whim or scratching at the door to the back room so his door-mom will know it’s time to get off her ass to open it for him so he can huffily walk away, he’s been working overtime to make sure I do his bidding … now.
Now he’s squished one of my legs into a locked position (Allow me to stretch my legs out? BWAHAHHAHAAA! Tell me another one …) and is laying on my foot.
He obviously senses that shots and nail clippers are in the cards this week.
Theoretically it won’t be as traumatizing as last year, since I’m having his teeth cleaned too (which means sedation … safest for everyone involved). We’ll see what happens come Thursday. Of course, that means no food or water the night before.
He may kill me before we ever get to the vet’s.
Why do I put up with him again? Oh yeah …